Vue Mai was one of the many Hmong who fought in the CIA's "secret war" in Laos in the 1960s and '70s. He later became a prominent leader of the Hmong resistance that continued well into the 1980s the anti-communist fight the United States had encouraged against the government of Laos. And when the United States finally sought to make amends with Laos, Vue Mai accepted a dangerous role again, this time as a peacemaker.
For three decades, Vue Mai was a valuable player in U.S. foreign policy. And then he disappeared.
His story has the makings of a compelling international whodunit, complete with intrigue, betrayal and powerful enemies with reason to do him in. Consider the characters:
* The protagonist, 57-year-old Vue Mai. He rose to the rank of major in the CIA's mostly Hmong, anti-communist army of Laos during the Vietnam War. He fled Laos in 1975 when the communist forces won, and - as commander of the largest Hmong refugee camp in Thailand - continued to fight for another decade, until U.S. and U.N. officials persuaded him to break ranks with the Hmong resistance and accept repatriation to Laos. They wanted him to lead back thousands of other Hmong, a radical and divisive step since most Hmong hated and feared the Lao government. Vue Mai crossed the Mekong River back to Laos in 1992.
* Vang Pao, 64, the legendary leader of the CIA-Hmong army, and still the leader of the anti-Lao resistance. Because Vang Pao, who lives in California, wants the opposition to continue, the departure of Vue Mai, his former lieutenant, was a personal betrayal. Despite the bad blood, Vang Pao denied his people had anything to do with Vue Mai's disappearance. "How could the Hmong resistance kidnap Vue Mai during daytime in communist Laos and have nobody see them?" he asked.
* The government of the People's Democratic Republic of Laos. One of the most secretive governments in the world, the communists in Vientiane do not have an enviable record on human rights. Laotians who displease them have a tendency to disappear into jail, according to groups such as Amnesty International, and some Lao officials have hinted that Vue Mai made the displeasing mistake of continuing to meet with former resistance colleagues. The Lao government has refused to share the results of its investigation into Vue Mai's disappearance, saying only that it isn't responsible and doesn't know who is.
* Diplomats from the State Department and the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees, who spent months wining, dining and pressuring Vue Mai, urging him back to Laos. U.S. and UNHCR officials promised Vue Mai security in Laos and accompanied him on the ferry across the Mekong when he returned. But now they say they have little leverage with the Lao government; it became clear in last week's hearing that since Vue Mai disappeared they have not gone beyond politely requesting information from the Lao government.
In written testimony submitted to last week's hearing, Vue Wa, Vue Mai's grown son who lives in California, said that foreign governments sponsored Vue Mai's return to Laos and then "betrayed his loyalty."
"The UNHCR, the State Department, they all wanted to use my father to lead back the Hmong and settle their problem," Vue Wa said later. "But now he is disappeared, they are avoiding everything, doing very little. My father did not get the help he needed in Laos, and we are not getting the help we need now."
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What Vue Mai did for the United States and United Nations was significant. About 50,000 Hmong refugees remain in Thailand - about 175,000 fled Laos in the bloody years after the 1975 communist victory and more than 100,000 of them came to the United States - and their continued presence is a financial burden and diplomatic strain.
As the Cold War ended, America and Thailand wanted to make peace with communist Laos, and the low-level armed resistance that the Hmong maintained against the Lao government was an obstacle to that peace. By leading thousands of Hmong from their Thai refugee camps back to Laos, Vue Mai would undermine the resistance and help stabilize the region.
As described by his son, Vue Mai's life once he returned to Laos was not easy. U.S. and UNHCR promises of financial aid did not materialize, and the Lao government was slow to find land for the Hmong who followed Vue Mai home. Relatives in Laos told Vue Wa that his father had a police officer assigned to him, and was followed wherever he went.
This is why Vue Wa does not believe the Lao government assertions that it does not know what happened to his father. "They knew everything he did," Vue Wa said.
State Department officials, who say that high-ranking U.S. diplomats have been pressing the Lao privately about Vue Mai since October, agree that Laos knows more than it is telling. At last week's hearing, Phyllis Oakley, acting director of the State Deparment's Bureau of Refugee Programs, called on Laos to "make public the results of its investigation as soon as possible."
But State Department officials say privately that they are not hopeful about getting much information.
Seng Soukathivong, an official of the Lao Embassy in Washington, said last week that Laos was also concerned about Vue Mai, but "so far, we have no information."
Lao officials, along with the State Department, generally point to the Hmong resistance as the likely abductors of Vue Mai. Vang Pao and his followers are undeniably upset about Vue Mai's return to Laos, and it is widely believed that the resistance was responsible for a grenade thrown into Vue Mai's refugee camp home in 1991. No one was hurt in that attack.
One refugee activist, who wished to remain anonymous, said Vue Mai's disappearance clearly benefited the resistance: "The Lao government is embarrassed, the repatriation slows down, and the State Department looks terrible."
But it is not clear why the Lao government, if it knew the resistance was responsible, would not make public its evidence.
Vue Mai's disappearance has been advantageous to some, but to one group in particular it has been a disaster: The 450 members of Vue Mai's clan now living at the Na Pho Repatriatrion Centre in Thailand.
Once Vue Mai agreed to return to Laos, his clan was ostracized; other Hmong exiles will not speak to a Vue. The Vues had formally agreed to follow their leader to Laos, but now - despite continued pressure from the UNHCR and State Department - they are refusing to go. Vue Mai's disappearance, they have said, convinced them that Laos is not safe for them either. They have written pleading letters to U.S. officials asking to be resettled in the United States instead.
But the logic and momentum of the repatriation program may well prevail. If the Vue clan members are allowed to opt out of their decision to return to Laos, diplomats say, thousands of other Hmong on the same path might demand similar treatment. The officials' inability to protect Vue Mai in Laos has not made them any less determined to repatriate as many Hmong as they can.
Dawn Calabria, a senior external relations officer with UNHCR, was at the hearing last week. Asked if there was any other option for the Vues, she said Thai officials say the clan - and the 11,000 other Hmong at the Na Pho camp - must leave Thailand soon, and there is only one place they can go: Laos.
